Deneuve's poise is unassailable; Buuel's attempts to strip away the frigidity that is part of her screen persona--the major part, perhaps--bounce off her as feebly as do her husband's bedroom advances. Deneuve is always touted as "the ice princess with hidden fires," but I've never sensed any fires. She's a decorator's idea of a movie goddess--utterly and relentlessly tasteful. Even abandoned to lust, she's tasteful.
There is something distinctly surreal about this, so it's not hard to see how she would appeal to a filmmaker like Buuel. But surrealists love the fleshy messiness under the surface of formal perfection, and Buuel wasn't able to crack Deneuve's surface--how maddening her Teflon impenetrability must have been. After the screening of Belle de Jour I attended, a friend of mine said, "She's the only woman in the world who looks good in dung." It's true--other actresses (and actors) take on a perverse beauty when they're sullied, but Deneuve simply doesn't sully. She wears filth as well--and as carelessly--as she would an Yves St. Laurent ensemble.
